Evolving Temperament and Perceptual Thinking
by AnthroQueen
Summary: It's too late now. You've lost your chance.


**Hey guys! Long time, no see! I honestly haven't written anything since October and it's been strange. School picked up, obviously, and I had to devote my time to my writing workshops instead of for Community. What do we think of season 4 so far? I'm actually pleasantly surprised by it, to be honest. They've managed to redeem Britta's character, thank God, and even though the Troy/Britta storyline is making me cringe, something tells me they'll be done soon. At least, I hope so.**

**So I wrote this following the Thanksgiving episode. I've been experimenting with different points of view and tense changes, so this one's in the second person. You'll have to tell me if it's awful haha. The song at the beginning is "Signs" by Bloc Party. Great song. I recommend it. Anyway, enjoy and thanks for reading!**

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Evolving Temperament and Perceptual Thinking

_Two ravens in the old oak tree  
One for you and one for me  
And bluebells in the late December  
I see signs now all the time_

_The last time we slept together  
There was something that was not there  
You never wanted to alarm me  
But I'm the one that's drowning now  
_

**How it happened**:

(Or, at least, how you remember it happening, because let's face it- you've blocked a lot of this shit out)

You can't remember a time when you were ever important to him. One of your earliest memories consisted of getting called out as a mere kindergartener, his voice raspy and stale, breath stinging and smelling of whiskey. He kept you up at night, screaming with your mother- or rather _at _your mother- and you laid in bed, eyes squeezed shut and hands clamped over your ears, begging for sleep to take you away. You listened to all of the heroic tales your mom used spin to build his character- he was the star quarterback of his high school team, he was a pro boxer and a UFC champion, he was the smartest, he was the greatest, he was the best.

But that's not what you saw.

You were seven years old when your father first turned his drunken aggression on you. He'd claimed it was an accident, but who really knows? (You do and it wasn't.) You asked if he would teach you how to throw a ball, how to shoot a basket, how to fight- man stuff. When he turned to face you again, he sneered as if you were asking him to climb through a sewer. His eyes were bloodshot and glossy, lost beneath clouds of liquor, and his lips formed a ferocious frown. "Get lost," he'd bellowed and reached towards you, placing a hard hand on your concaved chest and shoving you away. Dismissed.

You started hanging out at the rec center across town, anything to stay away from home, to avoid the mess you would inevitably get tangled in. It wasn't like you really had any friends, but at least you could fade into the background there. At home, your mother was always forcing you to do something- clean your room, set the table, go outside and get some exercise for god's sake! – and your father… well. When he was home, you were his favorite punching bag. So the rec center was an outlet, a safe haven for broken kids and kids who needed a distraction from their broken parents. Wouldn't you know it- both of those applied to you.

But kids are mean; kids were just as cruel as your parents were and soon, the rec center wasn't exactly your favorite place to hang out (sometimes, you can still hear them chanting "_Tinkletown! Tinkletown!_"). Things fell apart, after that; your mother continued to tell amazing stories about your less-than-stellar (and that's putting it _very_ lightly) father, but she fought constantly with the bastard, never won, and cried herself to sleep at night. You tried not to do the same. Your father continued to come home drunk more often than not; once, he brought a throng of girls with him and you felt completely empty inside, like you were being abandoned, left behind, forgotten.

That was the last straw, most likely.

The divorce was kind of a blur; you, at ten-years-old, didn't have to do much. The moment everything was settled- your mother got custody, naturally- you twisted uncomfortably in you suit that was much too small, in the tie your mother fastened around your neck that was much too tight, to look over at your father and his counsel. A few hundred bills slapped into the palm of the greasy lawyer's hand made him a happy guy. He walked out of the courtroom, into that sweet ride you would envy for the rest of your life, and took off to settle someone else's problem without a care in the world. You said nothing. You looked over at your mother, who wiped a tear from her eye, tugged on your jacket and said, "Come on, Jeffrey." But you didn't follow her just yet. Instead, you glanced over your shoulder, towards your father, who shot you his trademark smarmy grin. He snorted, shook his head, and grumbled, "See ya around, kid."

Needless to say, you don't.

Until today.

**How it happens**:

It's been a long time coming. Ever since that day you screamed everything you ever wanted to say to your dad at Pierce, it was inevitable that you would eventually have to repeat those same things to the bastard face to face. The day he walked out on you and your mom was the day you swore if you ever saw him again, you'd rip him a new one. You planned and schemed what you'd say to him for months. You dreamed up a thousand scenarios in which you'd get to watch him plead for forgiveness and you'd turn him away, screaming all the obscenities you knew and getting to walk out with your dignity still intact.

That isn't exactly how it happens, though, and it's all because of Greendale.

Your mom gives you your father's address and phone number and suddenly, you have all the power. You're not going to do anything. You don't _need_ to do anything. But it's good to know that you have the choice. Your only mistake? Telling Britta about that choice. It comes out as an accident; you're bantering, again, because that's comfortable, that's just what you _do_. Things between you and Britta have been super weird lately; she's dating Troy and while you'd like to be like the rest of the group and be okay with it- she's your best friend, she seems happy, and that's good, right? - you're not fine at all.

That first day of school, when they'd walked into history class holding hands, you felt like that ten-year-old broken kid all over again- abandoned, left behind, forgotten.

So bantering, yeah. It's your thing. It gets you back to normal… whatever "normal" is for the Greendale parents who were never really "normal" to begin with. And then you make the mistake of mentioning that you found him. You found the bastard that walked out on you twenty-something years ago and tried desperately hard not to be found. And suddenly, her face changes; she's concerned, she's worried about you, and she's completely serious now. She's asking a million questions, she's inquiring whether or not you'll meet up with him, and you're overwhelmed; you want things to go back to the lighthearted banter, to go back to the way they were before (there's a double meaning in there somewhere, but we'll ignore it for now), but it's too late and it's your fault. You're the one who brought it up.

Which brings us to today- if this was some cheesy, low-budget film, you would reconcile with your father or maybe you would ream him out like you always wanted. Neither of these things happens. Instead, you avoid Thanksgiving at Shirley's like the plague and pull into your father's driveway, trying to ignore the chicken-scratched "Willy Jr." on the mailbox once you finally gather enough courage to walk up to the door. It takes everything you have to knock on the door… But you can't do it. You're a coward, you've always been a coward no matter how much faux confidence you throw at people at Greendale, and instead you find yourself driving away, effectively avoiding the situation. And for some reason, you're calling Britta, even though you _know_ she'll make you turn around again.

There's nothing you hate more than when Britta's right and it's happening more and more often lately. She's standing behind you and god damn these metaphors; you knock on the door and want to throw up and scream and swear all at once. And the rest of the night both does and doesn't go exactly how you expected. But through it all, there's Britta; she doesn't say much, doesn't try to get in the way, she's just… there. Just as you never knew you needed her to be. But as you two depart your father's house and climb into that Lexus, you realize there's no way you could've done it without her. She's your rock, your sense of security, your best friend.

And now you're sitting in the car, the evening waning into full-fledged night, stars glistening across the dark blanket of sky and the moon full and round, guiding them home. Britta's quiet, taking it all in, and when she looks over at you, there are tears in her eyes. Barely there, but tears all the same. You don't know if they're out of pity or pride- you're hopeful for the latter- but you ignore it anyway. Because there's something about this night; something is different between the two of you, now. You let your guard down, you let her in, and it's something she never thought she'd see. It isn't like you'd ever really lied to her- those first few weeks at Greendale notwithstanding- but you'd never really told her the truth, either. Tonight's different, though. Now everything is different.

When you look at her now, it's like you're seeing her for the first time. For once, you understand Britta Perry and this realization blows your mind. All she ever wanted was for you to be honest with her. For you to unlock those shackles on the gates and walls around your heart; to just _let her in_, for God's sake. You'd refused, you remained your usual guarded self, and the bottom fell out of your kind-of relationship. But now… _Now_. Now, you're looking at Britta like you've always looked at Britta; like you love her, or at least want to love her, but can't seem to figure out how to do that. You aren't sure if you two would work out, aren't sure if you could ever make her happy, but you want to and you want to try.

Except- Troy. You may be looking at her as if you've just gotten your life together and she's the next step in the plan and she may be looking at you as if you're a completely different person to her, but there's still Troy. He's sitting in between you two, the elephant in the room, present, even if he's not really there. And there's nothing you can do, really. Because you're not awful enough to plot their breakup (though you may or may not have done so in your head a dozen or so times) and you're not good enough to let them be happy, so you're stuck in an awkward limbo, watching them from afar and not at all okay with their situation.

**How it doesn't happen**:

Willy Jr. goes back into the house. You don't turn to Britta and ask where Troy is. She doesn't guiltily look away from you and mumble that he's at Shirley's. You don't draw in a deep breath, start the car and then ask if she'd like to go out for a few drinks. She doesn't nod her approval, suggest a bar, and then make awkward small talk the whole way there. When you arrive at The Red Door, because of course she would, you don't stop the car or place a hand on her upper thigh to stop her from exiting the vehicle. She doesn't pause, hand on the door, to glance back at you, expression questioning.

"Wait," You don't begin. "There's something I need to say."

"You already thanked me," She doesn't reply. "We're good."

"No," You don't shake your head, don't look at her. "It's something else. Look, it's about you and Troy."

She doesn't sigh and sit back against the seat. "I was afraid of that."

"I'm not… I'm not going to lie," You don't start out, completely sincere, completely genuine. "I'm not exactly fond of this relationship. But… if you guys are happy, then… I'm happy too."

"Except you're not," Britta doesn't challenge back. "You aren't happy at all."

"No," You don't agree. "I'm not really."

She doesn't nod, understanding. "You're jealous of Troy."

"That obvious, huh?" You don't smirk, not one bit. "Wish I could say I wasn't, but… He makes you happy. I never made you happy."

"That's not true," Britta doesn't disagree. "That whole year we were having sex? I was _very_ happy. More than."

"Happier than now?"

"Maybe."

You don't grin at her and she doesn't grin back. "So what does that mean?"

"You tell me."

"Can I buy you a drink?" You don't offer. "I miss you."

She doesn't agree and you don't amble into the bar beside her, happier than you've been in a while. Over a few drinks, your hand doesn't wind up on her knee and she doesn't try to ignore it. She doesn't promise, "I need to talk to Troy. And then you and I… we need to talk too."

You don't agree and the drinks do not somehow become celebratory.

_None of this happens._

Instead, Willy Jr. goes back inside the house. There's a lot you want to say and a lot you're not going to. Britta is still looking at you like you're completely changed and it's humbling and false; you know you're no better a person now than you were at the beginning of the night. But her faith in you makes you _want_ to be better, no matter what is going to come with the morning. A buzz rings through the silence between the two of you and Britta quickly checks the cracked screen of her cell phone. You turn away to give them some privacy, assuming- correctly- that the text is from Troy.

"It was Troy," Britta says a moment later, even though she knows you know that already. "He says dinner at Shirley's was a disaster and they just left now."

"Okay," You respond. "You wanna head over there?"

"To their apartment?" She asks. You nod and she shakes her head. "No. I just want to go home. I need a drink."

You smirk because your thoughts are not so different after all. You put the car into gear and pull out of the complex. "What's wrong? No alcohol at La Casa Chez Tranniebed?"

"Believe it or not, they don't really drink over there."

"That's because they're children," You blurt out uncontrollably and bite your tongue the moment it's left your mouth.

She pauses a moment before agreeing with you. "Yeah. I guess they kind of are."

The rest of the car ride is left painfully silent. There is so much surrounding the two of you- feelings galore, both spoken and unspoken. If there's one thing that was absolutely solidified tonight- besides the fact that your father is a dick, but we knew that already- it's that you're completely, irreversibly in love with Britta Perry. Except the problem with this realization? It's that she's currently in a relationship with someone else. Timing's a bitch and it's something you've never been good at, so when you pull up to her apartment complex and she pauses as if she's waiting for you to say something, to say _it_, you say instead, "Thank you, Britta. For everything."

Her face falls slightly, but she smiles at you anyway. The tears are back again, but this time, you're not sure why. "Of course. I've got your back, Winger."

She exits the car and you watch her go, a few feet up the sidewalk before she turns and comes back toward your car. Your heart begins to race; pulse quickening, you're sure that now's the time, now's the time to tell her what you're feeing. You wish you could blame it on the vulnerability of the night, but you know, deep down, you've been feeling this for a while. So she crouches slightly, leans in to the car, and you roll down the window. But the moment her face fills your vision, you're once again speechless.

Because you're a bad person; your father had always told you so and you've always believed it. But you're not _Satan_- Troy's a good kid and you're not going to ruin things between him and Britta, no matter how you feel about her (and it's _strong_, it's good, too). You had your chance with her and you blew it- twice. She told you she loved you, you were sleeping with her for a year straight. You walked away, you kissed Annie. There are only so many times you're given another chance and you've just about exhausted every opportunity. So, it's too bad you've only now realized your true feelings. There isn't anything you can do now.

"I'm really proud of you, Jeff," is what she says.

"Goodnight, Britta," is your response.

She walks away. You've lost your chance.

But it's too late, anyway.


End file.
